


Hit the Powder

by cAtEr_PiLlAr



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:02:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cAtEr_PiLlAr/pseuds/cAtEr_PiLlAr
Summary: "and watch the flame that arrives in his eye,"





	Hit the Powder

**A** pril was a cold month. The lingering winter made its last push of dominance over the climate, and the spring prevailed over the future.

Joseph Casteel was bundling his way to flat along the dim and muggy street. He walked along the row of street lights that have long since burned out. Some of the posts have papers that fluttered in the chilling breeze that was bound to gust in minutes. Casteel could see his flat from in the Estelle Cafe, where he resided temporarily on his days off work. Most of the shops that weren't already abandoned were dark and silent. The electric current was cut off during the daytime and some hours in the darkening evening. This has been happening since early March in their economic preparation of Hate Week. Casteel spied a poster that he has seen on the way home from work every day. He could never idly pass by the posters without glancing at them. He looked at it half-expecting the poster to change overnight. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said of the poster. The face pictured on the poster was big. The face took about a meter of space across. Forty-five and handsome to many people. He carried a thick black mustache below eyes that seem to follow anyone around that dared to be noticed by the eternal face.

Casteel read that poster every day while going home from work. And it seemed unnaturally strange to him that the poster did not change. He didn't expect the poster to change. He just wished the eyes would stop following him when crossed its path. Like an old painting of a person, its eyes seemed to follow you around. Casteel hated it but didn't seem bothered.

His flat was getting closer, and he could start to distinguish the gnashes that were lacerated on its sides. As Casteel got closer to the wall of marks, he could see where the bland concrete wall was slashed and ran his hand across the jagged stone. He cursed the enemy under his breath while taking his now fist of a hand from the slashed wall and walked around the building to the stairs, the lift had collapsed on itself the week before. The breaking of the lift didn’t surprise Casteel, it was caused by the electrical outage that the Party rationed in early March. The poor woman who used it was dropped 4 floors and broke about every bone in her frail body. Casteel knew the woman but hasn’t seen her since.

Casteel arrived at the stairwell, and the big face met him once again. This time he was close enough to the face that the eyes couldn’t follow him or the eye would have rolled into his nose. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, Casteel read once again.

Casteel looked at each step as he lumbered up the crumbling steps to the second floor. Soon, he thought, the stairs were going to disintegrate, then they’ll have to fix the lift or the stairs. At the landing of the second story, the poster appeared again, BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, Casteel read without looking at the caption. The general popularity of the print was passively passionate. No one acknowledged the poster, it was just there with its forever gazing eyes. Casteel sees hundreds of posters every day in the same places. That was only the hundreds out of billions upon billions upon even more billions of the same face and same sentence: BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.

Casteel walked across the hall to the side of the building where the lift was located, and directly next to the lift, was the door of his flat. He walked up to the door and unlocked the door, it was a miracle that the lock still worked. The flat was built no later than the 1940s, Casteel was sure of it. The darkened gold numbers of his flat were hammered to the door, 06.

Casteel opened the door gently, but it's signature creak pierced the air with a whine that made Casteel’s eyes shut. He entered the door and shut it behind him. A person would love to experience a moment of silence at a time like this, Casteel thought. But it was impossible. The complexities of getting a moment to oneself was a question that even after 29 years of thinking about it, Casteel still couldn’t decipher what true silence was.

The telescreen was giving a lesson on the principles of Newspeak, the official language of the Party and Oceania. Oceania is the country which the Party governs. And Newspeak is the official language of Oceania. Casteel looked at the telescreen, which was a curved metal plaque that was reflective like still pond water on a cloudy day. The grayscale of the telescreen made most of the pictures beaming out indecipherable. But right now, the telescreen was beaming the face of a woman, lecturing of the basic principals of grammar. ‘Grammar’ wasn’t a Newspeak word, it was just called ‘Newspeak’. And the basics were putting plus and minus before any Newspeak word. Words like doubleplusgood would mean ‘great’ in Oldspeak (or standard English). Or crimethink would be ideas and thought that are against the Party’s wishes. The Party didn’t exert Newspeak on the people forcefully because the development of the language was still under work by the Party. Leading articles in the Times, or the only newspaper in Oceania, was written in Newspeak.

The telescreen was at the volume Casteel had left it this morning. He went to the tiny knob that was next to the huge mirror. He made the telescreen quiet, but the words were still distinguishable. Casteel felt better but knew that he couldn’t turn it off. You could never turn off the telescreen, there was no way of doing so. Even with the electricity cuts, the telescreen still jabbered twenty-four hours a day. Casteel was no longer bothered by the incessant sound of the telescreen, he still got very good sleep.

Casteel turned to the window, which was on the longer wall, adjacent to the telescreen. The reportedly hot wind was blazing the world, but the temperature was an unusual 30 degrees. Outside, Casteel’s view was largely blocked off by the ruins of the concrete aquapillar, which used to stand a kilometer tall before it was struck by a rocket bomb. The blown up concrete was the reason for the cuts and holes around Casteel’s flat and many of the other buildings that were struck by the thousands of pieces concrete that spread for more than a mile around. Over the concrete ruins was a sprawl of houses and flats that went on for as far as Casteel could see. Most of the flats were for the proles, or the working class population, and their flats never reached more than 2 floors. So Casteel could see over them until a noticeable 6-story flat erupted out of the concrete sea. If someone from the Lake 5 Area (previously called “Lake Michigan Area” and the “North Side” by the capitalists) visited Casteel’s area of residence, they would find it sparse and poor with the occasional sewer rat. But no one from those more expensive area ever have came to Casteel’s area, they seldom ever went outside. Usually inner-Party members and spies working with the Party to bring down their various enemies lived in those dreamy facilities. Beyond the ocean of gray was a real ocean of gray that was off-limits of people like Casteel and the proles. The lake is used a source of drinking water and a main ingredient of almost every alcoholic beverage made in the city. Then, even further, was the almost conjoined horizon, a bleak gray that matched everything else in this basic city. The horizon is something that Casteel saw everyday, like he was also expecting for it to change every time he looked at it. But Casteel actually knew, one day, the sky will be what it was said in Party songs: “ _The windy city; the bright blue sky; through its adversity; the patriots arise”_ the melody went. The bright blue sky mentioned in the locally-famous hymn was alien to the face of the city. And Casteel was waiting for it to show its face, one day, he thought.

Casteel’s face was emotionless. It was simple etiquette in front of the telescreen that oneself keep a straight face. Showing any emotion that was not caused by the beaming information from the telescreen was seen as unorthodox. Everyone, even children, knew that the telescreen received as well as beamed. They scrutinized every unorthodox and regular move that every individual Party member makes and judges whether they should strike or wait. But Casteel didn’t want thinking about that now.

He was thinking about his job, Hate Week was supposed to alter his work schedule once it started. His job was fundamental to the purpose of Hate Week. His job was to make sure that the hated stay hated, to make it short. His position was important in the Ministry of Truth, one of the four governmental departments that govern Oceania. His job was moreover entertainment, political entertainment, to promote _goodthink_ , Newspeak for ‘patriotism’. He and his colleagues also made ideas for _prolefeed_ , movies that were made for distracting the proles and Party members.

Casteel moved to the refrigerator, which was on the opposite wall of the telescreen. The content of the fridge was plenty, a lump of brown bread that was to be saved for the morning. A piece of chocolate that was saved from last week, Casteel had suffered a mild cold that made him gag when he ate the powdery cocoa. And the smell of chlorofluorocarbons seeped out of the grates above the bread. Casteel closed the squeaking door and grabbed his overcoat.

His flat was desolate and to a certain extent, homely. Casteel seldom spent time in this concrete block that was his flat. He only spent time in his bed that was in a little crevice in the wall that blocked Casteel from the telescreen. That’s where he got to think before going to bed, that is also where he could smile, frown and exercise the muscles on his face without exposing himself to the telescreen. He still was silent because the telescreen could still hear him with a clear ear. It was just a matter of self-control that let his emotions loose in a physical way. He enjoyed those times that brought along a certain peace that makes Casteel’s day wind down and settle. Like a constant disturbance of mud in water that delicately dies down with the reverent silence of only divine disturbance of the natural world. The telescreen interrupted his settling with a whistle signaling that it was 1830, or 6:30 in capitalist time.

Casteel turned from the window, leaving his flat for a drink at Estelle Cafe.

* * *

**“** How do you suppose that people would react to this one?” Comrade Whitman set the newly printed preview of the Times on Casteel’s desk in his cubicle (it was common politeness to call one ‘comrade’).

Casteel read the column that mattered to him.

“Don’t you suppose that people would want more color?” Casteel asked, “People need to be invigorated about going to the speeches. I want to make people think of this as an experience, not just a speech.”

“That’s what you say every year.” Comrade Whitman collected his copy of the Times and strode over to his desk. Casteel knew that Comrade Whitman would do what he asked.

Casteel strode over to Comrade Soyl and read the paper over his shoulder. When Casteel made his presence known, Comrade Soyl was not startled, but instead flipped his early copy of the Times and lifted it up to Casteel.

Comrade Soyl enjoyed working under Casteel, Comrade Soyl couldn’t handle work that required that someone to divvy out tasks and work to different people. He always did his work, he considered any work that was shored up to him, whether it was supposed to be spread among his coworkers or by himself, his work. And he always did it. Casteel admired his passiveness about his work. It was a do or die situation for Comrade Soyl. His point nose made him seem like anything he was doing, he was doing it with all his willpower. His slim body made him look young. He looked just like the old photographs of Party members at international conferences in Air Strip 1 (which was called England before the Party came to power).

Comrade Whitman was the antonym of Comrade Soyl. His big body lumbered around the _enrec4_ , or Entertainment Department 4. _Enrec4_ dealt with Hate Week and the numerous Hate Films that came out at the flicks. Casteel and his group of 4 dealt with the ideas for the Hate Week events and Hate Film plots. Comrade Whitman was big, strong, blubbered, mean, and passionate for his work. He had a reputation for getting angry because his work wasn’t approved by Casteel, then angrily scribbled something and presented it with a rash face. He usually stomped off and stared at the telescreen for a long minute. He was an illiterate, a term that Casteel used to describe a person who was in constant _bellyfeel_ , or he was a person who accepted an idea or a fact without a second thought. He trusted the Party with his existence, so much that any idea or ‘fact’ that came from the Party’s mouth was the ultimate, ideal, and permanent truth. Casteel didn’t respect illiterates, but they needed not to know that.

Still, Casteel was appreciative of Comrade Soyl and Comrade Whitman, they were hard workers that enjoyed their lives and families. The other workers were so bland and drawn out that they needn’t mentioning. Casteel seldom talked to them during the work day and submitted their work when Casteel left for the day. Their creativity was used for Hate Films that the Party created for young proletarians.

Casteel was standing at his desk when the telescreen made a screechy trumpet sound. The war bulletin! A cheer went out through the room, while some pumped their fist in the air in triumph. They always began with a trumpet when the bulletin meant victory. “The military has just successfully taken west Africa! I am allowed to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring the war within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash— 2 million prisoners, heavy casualties…” Casteel didn’t need to hear the rest of it. Eastasia was in for one hell of a ride, Casteel thought. But he knew that the war would never end, that Oceania would be at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia, at least that is what the Party said. That is what beamed from the telescreen, that the people of Oceania needed to support our boys at the front and on the floating fortresses. Casteel reached for a packet on his desk labeled VICTORY CIGARETTES, took out one, and failed to light it. The loosely wrapped tobacco spilled out when Casteel tried to readjust the cigarette on his fingers. He didn’t take out another.

After wiping the singed tobacco from his lap, the daily tasks came shooting out of the pneumatic tube. It ran to the ceiling that went to his boss for upsubing, which was practically turning in his tasks to the higher authorities for reviewing. At the other end of his desk was a memory hole, which was the incinerator for any waste paper and a physical method of crimestop. Crimestop was to get rid of any potential unorthodox thought. Or to literally stop thinking before committing a thoughtcrime. Thoughtcrime was one of the more complex terms of Newspeak. But it was basically holding an unspoken doubt or belief that opposes the principles of Ingsoc. Ingsoc, or English Socialism, was the ideology of the Party and it governed every aspect of life in Oceania. It was a very complicated topic that only inner-Party members are able to fully explain. But it was universal knowledge to not oppose Ingsoc. You had to know it, obey it, believe it, and most importantly, love it till death.

Casteel opened the task papers and read off aloud, to notify the others of what he was working on at the present moment.

_hweek 4.10.85 bb speech doubleplusungood from 84 refs unpersons rectify bb liked return upsub_

Casteel will interpret that as “Subject: Hate Week; April 10, 1985, Big Brother Speech from Hate Week last year found unsatisfactory when found it refers to nonpersons, change to Big Brother’s liking and turn in for review.”

The speech was sent with the task paper. Casteel saw that it referred to people who no longer existed. People with the names of Comrade Smith, Comrade Bingham, Comrade Conalee, and Comrade Parsons were mentioned as model Party members that the people should give applause to. But they didn’t exist this year, they never existed and there is no memory or evidence that can say they existed. But this is the evidence that he could use to oppose the Party.

Casteel was in turmoil, he distrusted the Party and wanted to prove it wrong in any way possible. He wanted to speak out and scream from the top of his lungs that humans deserve to be left alone, and not with a telescreen. There was no law saying he couldn’t do that, for there were no laws anymore since the Party came to power. There was still a police force, but they didn’t matter, they could only throw one in jail for a day or two. The Thought Police were the ones that one should be afraid of. The _thinkpol_ were the ones that made sure you never existed. They operated out of the Ministry of Love, the department that deals with peace within Oceania. Casteel was terrified of the Thought Police, they kidnapped you, tortured you, changed you, then they shot you. There was absolutely no way to get a gun in Oceania or any weapon for that matter. They shot you in the back of the neck, they always shot you in the back of the neck. Before they finished you off, you suffered through the unspoken horrors inside the Ministry of Love. Casteel banished in fears out of his mind for now.

These people, Comrade Smith, Comrade Bingham, Comrade Conalee, and Comrade Parsons never existed. Casteel scratched out the whole speech and pulled the speakwrite towards him. The Party monitored that too, so he had to be careful with what came out of his mouth. Any hesitation or stuttering would be a sign that something else was on his mind, and then he was surely going to get vaporized. Vaporization is the Party’s way of erasing your existence from anything and everything. Casteel was afraid of that, too.

The telescreen made a sharp whistle, time for lunch in the canteen. Another meal of gray stew, bread, a block of cheese, VICTORY COFFEE, VICTORY GIN, and a saccharin tablet. Casteel shuffled out where he passed the custodian walking in, and then he saw it. The man’s face twitched, for a split second, so quick that if Casteel blinked, he would have missed it. Casteel kept his face forward as he walked, he knew that the man was a goner. He was utterly going to get arrested by the Thought Police. His twitch was a dead giveaway of unorthodox thought. Casteel needed to be on his guard. The telescreens were sensitive enough to pick up someone's heartbeat if it is at an unusual level caused by something outside the Party’s knowledge.

Casteel made sure he remembered the man’s face because he knew that was the last time he was going to see him again. But he also knew that, soon enough, the Though Police were going to get to _him_ too.

* * *

**T** he Hate Week events were in full swing. Casteel was exhausted, working almost 100 hours during this week was a drain on him that would last a number of months. Running each event was something saved for skilled Party members. It was okay to Casteel because he was mentioned in almost every speech as the wonderful coordinator of Hate Week. Getting numerous ovations made Casteel feel good, not because he was doing the Party’s wishes, but because he knew that he could do amazing things.

The Hate Week events were all over the place, Casteel wanted to make the city of Chicago, a city of Air Strip 7, to have the best Hate Week events in all of Oceania. Executions, parades, speeches, rallies, hate demonstrations, stomping, cheering, yelling, crying, and pure happiness because the Party is so great. Casteel knew he was overdoing Hate Week by making it too great. The Party might see that as unorthodoxy. The Party might think that Casteel knew too much, and they would vaporize him for that.

* * *

Casteel woke up after a short nap in the hallways of the Ministry of Truth. His slumber was interrupted by the incessant fluttering of a windowpane that was thrown open by the Chicago winds. Someone had gotten up and shut the pane with a snap. Not a minute later, the screeching of the work whistle rang through the corridors. As Casteel was getting up for two more days of Hate Week, a siren erupted from the telescreens, everyone stood at attention as the telescreen announced that it was not at war with Eastasia at all, but with Eurasia. There was a tremendous commotion in throughout Oceania, the banners and posters that were hung all over the place, the speeches, articles, maps, textbook, and memories were wrong! There had been sabotage! The enemy had been at work! Casteel was in a state of worry, none of the speeches and events were for the Eurasians, which had been an ally just three minutes ago. Casteel ran to his desk and saw paper after paper come out of the pneumatic tube, piling onto the floor. He looked around to see, will people really swallow this rubbish? He looked at Comrade Soyl, yes, he swallowed it. Comrade Whitman, him too. More work lied ahead.

Then, almost as a side note, the announcer added to the commotion that the Eurasians pushed their from lines to the border of East Africa. Which Casteel clearly remembered was the same land that Oceania’s forces had climbed to. So, did it mean that we gained to a point and next lost to the exact same point? Without losing or gaining land in the time between these two events? Casteel was skeptical.

He cleared the paper off his desk and set them on the floor to have space to work. But he didn’t have time to work on any of his tasks.

Casteel noticed that _enrec4_ was not as crowded as it was yesterday. Even with the change of war enemies, the people capacity of the room seemed larger than yesterday.

Casteel got up to use the lavatory, leaving only a couple more tasks on his desk. He heavily shuffled down the corridor and the loud thuds of pairs of rubber boots. Casteel looked up to a man shouting “Stay right where you are!”

Casteel knew. It was finally happening!

The guard took out a rope and tied Casteel’s hands to his body. Casteel didn’t talk, he didn’t move, because he knew that they hit you if you acted up. He didn’t want to get hit, his frail body that was plagued by hunger and undernourishment couldn’t take a blow without breaking. “You are arrested for conspiring against the Party, you are too remain still until you are told. The Party will determine…”

Casteel was certain they were going to shoot him. In the back of the neck, always in the back of the neck. Suspicion of being a spy, committing espionage, sabotaging the works of Oceania, and being a thought criminal. The Party charged Casteel with these charges and sentenced him to death. Casteel knew it was going to happen, it was just a matter of time that his suffering ended. He was now going to stop his mental biography that was being recorded in his head. No one was going to read it, he knew, all publications were regulated by the Party. Casteel was happy that his suffering was quenched when his execution was held on the last day of Hate Week, right after his newly edited speech was delivered in Millennium Park, with 30,000 witnesses.

_End._


End file.
